


Hedonism

by gxbrxxl



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: Bottom Carraway, Canon Divergence, Could Fit if Fitzgerald Wasn't a Bitch, Drunk Sex, Gatsby is Bisexual, Gatsby is Drunk, Hnng smoking, I am bri'ish so ignore some spellings pls, Internalized Homophobia, It's a bit sad, It's barely graphic, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Much more romantic than sexual?, Nick is Tipsy, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Internalized Homophobia, Since Nick is talking about his feelings, Smoking, So That Might Be Dubious?, So is Nick, They Only Fuck Once, Top Gatsby, but they do in fact be fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:01:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gxbrxxl/pseuds/gxbrxxl
Summary: The weekend following the Buchanan's visit to his party, Gatsby is wretched with worry. He spends the night experiencing his party as his guests do: getting sinfully drunk. When he plies Carraway upstairs with him, he finds himself realising just how much his friend looks like Daisy.Written from Nick's perspective.
Relationships: Nick Carraway/Jay Gatsby
Comments: 17
Kudos: 112





	Hedonism

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work, and I don't really know which trigger warnings or content warnings I need to include? So If you see anything that may harm people that should be included, please let me know!
> 
> Includes: drinking, drug usage, explicit content, dub-con due to drunkenness, and mentioned character death.
> 
> It isn't the most explicit, so I'm sorry if that's what you're here for. It's more like Nick drifts in and out of talking about sex and instead talks about how torn he is over Gatsby.
> 
> Also, any criticism is very welcome!

It must have been on an otherwise average August evening, remarkable for its unremarkability, that opened my eyes to the excessive debauchery of Gatsby.

***

Attending one of his parties, you see, was a vice itself. No matter where you went there was alcohol to drink, cigarettes and cigars to smoke, cocaine to snort, and people to disappear into bedrooms with. I was not supposed to be like this. I was a good, family boy, in New York for work over play. I swore to my mother of my morality, and to my father of my virtues. They warned me of the big city, of the dangers of liquors and gambling. Their only flaw was this: they didn’t tell me it was fun.

But it was.

So, it was an otherwise average August evening, and half of New York City was inside Gatsby’s home; the other half was waiting outside the door. The halls shone, as always, with glamour and glitz. Gaudy silvers, golds, and bronzes fought for attention in the hair, makeup and clothing of the women who made up half of the ranks. Expectations were high and skirt lengths were higher, everyone smelled vaguely of liquor and sweat, and beaded dresses jangled together in beat with the band. Cigarette smoke sent a haze across the ceiling, making the environment all the more dreamy and bitter. Cocaine was served fresh and free on silver platters, and guests sniffed all night on the buzz of the high. But no matter which vice you had chosen, it was all the same: when you were at Gatsby’s, you felt good.

I occupied the first hour of the night alone, drifting from dancing aimlessly to conversing with the barely-there. The gaze of a few women through dark eyelashes was cause for me to guzzle three flutes of champagne, enough to make me-of-little-experience tipsy and giddy.

Gatsby had bobbed around all night, paying visits to acquaintances and compliments to pretty women with pretty hair, before he’d be devoured by the crowd again, too quickly for me to latch onto him.

While sitting at a table with a group of fashionable people I had been adopted into, however, it was Gatsby’s turn to search for me. His presence was announced with a golden hand clasped onto my shoulder and a smiling voice. The voice blinded the others with praise and endearing words, just for long enough to request my presence in his study, before he danced away again into crowds of colour and music.

***

“She isn’t here, is she, Nick?”

It was jarring to find my name on his tongue. Uncomfortable, I would say, if it weren’t for that warm jolt in my lower stomach. I shook my head dumbly, startled.

“Why isn’t she here? She knows where I am, she said she liked the house, she seemed to like me. She didn’t enjoy the last party, did she? She hated it, oh, she must hate me alongside it.”

He was in that half-way state between anger and sadness, and I knew he would have continued like this all night, even if I left.

“Jay, come on.” I mumbled, attempting to take hold of his elbow and haul him down onto the chaise longue positioned right before the window overlooking my humble cottage. “Just sit, compose yourself.” It took two hands on his broad shoulders to force him down, and his skin stunk of liquor as he clasped a hand against my cheek. His fingers were chapped to the touch, and drummed against my skin in beat to the music that thrummed through the floorboards. I opened my mouth to say something, but swallowed my words back.

“You’ve got eyes like her, old sport.” He was chuckling, filled with warmth enhanced by the lamp that cast a red glow on golden skin.

I gave a fleeting smile, but asked, “What?” I understood every word, but didn’t want to.

“Would you care for a drink?” His hand withdrew to the cabinet next to him. “I’ve a bottle of fizz, if you feel like it, Old Sport. Would you?”

“Yes, I’d love to.” I lied, taking a seat beside him as he took out the flutes and champagne bottle, trying to pour with shaking hands. I took the bottle from him and poured it, leaning over him to place it down on the cabinet. We clinked our glasses and drank.

Perhaps it was the alcohol, or the obscene drug use evident from his timely sniffing, but he seemed to relax and tense up at the same time. He reclined leisurely against the chaise longue, yet his foot tapped against the hardwood floor. I, however, was gazing out of the window, lighting a cigarette to ignore Gatsby’s gaze upon me. I felt as if he’d pressed my lit cigarette to the spot on my cheek with which he was so transfixed.

“Would you like one?” I offered, finally, holding out the cardboard box. He looked as if he wanted to refuse, but he nodded instead. I slotted the cigarette between his lips, as he seemed so unsure as to what to do, and leaned in very slightly. The glowing tip of my cigarette danced lightly against his, affected by my hitching breath and shaking demeanour. It was then he placed his hand to the back of my head, cradling it gently; it took me a stunned moment to remember the two cigarettes keeping us apart.

Smoke billowed between our faces, and I receded back again to my corner of the couch.

“You look like Daisy.” He said, with alarmingly confident clarity. I couldn’t even feign deafness.

“And is that a good thing?”

“Of course it is, you know it is.” The moonlight created a silver glow over the right side of his face. “Your eyes… and your lips. You’re like a girl. You’re like Daisy. You are Daisy.” His voice was low, lulling.

There was an unbearable silence as he set down the champagne, and I took awkward, jerky draws from my cigarette. I know I should have stopped him. His pupils were wide. His hand was on my neck and his breath smelled of liquor and champagne and cigarettes and sin everytime I turned my head towards him.

“You’re quite beautiful, Old Sport…” And our lips were together.

***

I should’ve stopped him. I was no longer a curious observer to the gorgeous mess of Jay Gatsby. I was a direct accomplice to his crime; he shot the man, I handed him the gun. But I was overcome with the feeling of sin that I so enjoyed. The feeling of being desired by a person who should not desire me. The feeling of being pampered and praised. The feeling of being that which is loved. It felt so great, my stomach stirred yet again, and I left it all behind for him. I blossomed for him.

With his pulling away, I suppose he wanted to leave it there. Maybe pretend I was Daisy, that I was a woman with a little more stubble than usual but-- oh, how could I let him stop?

My cigarette dropped in the ashtray, I knelt forwards to grab Gatsby by his lapels, crumpled in my determined grip. There, I found his lips, pink and spewing smoke that made my eyes water. I did not care for that. My mouth slotted to his, and I knew I was in the right place.

Once I had tucked my chin back, to angle our foreheads together, I found his face red hot with flush and glowing in the pale light. This was sinful; this was wrong. I was sure of it, as I knelt on the chaise longue before him, like a crazed man. A person, walking in without invitation or context, would assume I had jumped to the defense of some female acquaintance he had disrespected. With only a smile on his open mouth, however, I was convinced to melt back into the comforting embrace of his lips. And embrace, we did. Glasses discarded, cigarettes left to burn away in their ashtrays, we both explored the other, explored a man, for what was likely the first time.

The square-ness of a man is not to be compared to a woman; they are too different, too stark. And I found myself wondering if the gentle curves of a woman's body really suited my hands? My contemplation lasted the entire time but eventually became more and more rose-tinted. As his long fingers crept against bare skin I was the only one to touch, I recognised that the feeling stirring in my stomach was so separate to that I felt with Jordan, with an old fancy from the Midwest, from any amount of women I'd started dancing with at one of his parties. Perhaps I was not designed to be that one on top, that one doing it all. Maybe I was made to be the, well, woman. Or just his.

His voice managed to penetrate my thoughts. Every idea was consolidated with "You're so like her," and "You're gorgeous, Old Sport." If it weren't for such a masculine nickname, I was sure my head would have exploded. With a long series of fumblings, he was undressed on the couch, or as undressed as he needed to be. Blazer, vest, shirt, and undershirt all off. Golden skin so very warm against my fingers, almost perfectly smooth to my touch, though he insisted at my drunken rambles that he did not, in fact, shave his chest. I chucked at this. I don't quite know why. But I didn't compliment him on it. I’m still not sure why not.

It soon occurred to me that I was also only half-dressed. I hadn't a body like his. He was well-toned, and I suppose I was too; our army days were so very similar, after all. But I was non-descript. Gatsby glowed. I felt like the ugliest man around once I realised my nakedness, sat next to him on the couch, in a similar manner. He was reclined on the couch, one leg over the other, and liquor in his hand from god-knows-where. His hand was on the small of my exposed back, and I was working my lips over the sweet-smelling skin of his neck. I told myself to ask what his cologne was later, but when later came it felt too obscene.

In the fray of the thing, somehow, his, well, that, found its way into my palm. It was as perfect and graceful and golden and lovely as the rest of him, and I hate admitting how natural it felt. Stroking and kissing, and accepting compliments like sweet champagne. Oh, how obscene it was, or how obscene it should've been. Yet I felt more in my heart than my crotch. After the brown booze had long gone, his hand found its way against my stiffening crotch. It was another embarrassing experience. I felt pale, gawky, small, ugly, compared to the man who, in my drink-addled eyes, could've been God. I can't remember much of what was said between us. I know I said very little, almost scared of somehow making it worse. He said quite a lot, whispered affections that made my red cheeks even darker. They were sweet-nothings. I hope they were sweet-nothings. If they weren't... I shan't know what to think.

But either way, his hand was soon wrapped around me too. I must've been mumbling something suitably self-deprecating, as I can remember his reassurance. "It's fine, it's fine, it's a perfect size." As much as I trusted Gatsby, and believe me, I did, I didn't believe him.

Then I did it.

Perhaps to get his eyes away from the semi-erection between my thighs I was so ashamed of, perhaps I simply wanted to. I favour the latter. But I dipped my head down, shuffling from the couch and onto my knees between his thighs. He was thick and filling to my mouth, and I shan't lie that it was a pleasant experience. Well, it wasn't, truly, but the warm smile on his warm face was enough to make up for it.

"Wonderful, Old Sport." He choked out. "Absolutely wonderful." How gauche. As if I had just taken a good croquet hit.

Finding the praise a sufficient reward, I continued with it. A large hand in my slicked hair, and sweet, crooned words powered me on. I slipped my strained lips back and forwards, and struggled as my throat was hit each time. The music that oozed through my knees from the party below had slowed, bass heavy and deep. My watering eyes lifted to Gatsby, and his emerald eyes stared straight back.

After such repetitive strain turned my throat raw, I pulled my lips back from his cock, coated in spit that was still connected to my pink lips. We laughed like teenagers as his thumb brushed it from the corner of my mouth, and I collapsed into his lap in total happiness.

Perhaps this was it, I thought, perhaps this would be my happiest moment. Staggering with the handsy millionaire-next-door to his desk, a very neat and tidy desk, I must say, chuckling and ridding ourselves of clothing, drinking from glasses that appeared from nowhere and bunny hugging naked to the roaring jazz that had resumed down below. In a roundabout way, my bare ass found its way onto the sturdy desk and his tall frame found its way between my legs.

"You're sure about this?" He murmured between laughs, and I couldn't nod my head enough.

Then he fucked me.

And I can't really describe it, yet it was the moment that sticks in my mind the most. We were hopelessly inexperienced, and hopelessly ill equipped. It stung like no less than hell and I could barely walk straight for days following. It wouldn't even stay in properly at first, and we laughed over each sorry attempt, as he didn't realise he needed to put his fingers in first. But when it did go in.... I shan't lie, it was the best I've ever felt.

His lips were against my Adam’s apple and my lips were against a champagne glass, and I could feel nothing but pleasure, once he really got started. Every few moments, we'd remember what was happening, or catch each others' eye, and end up laughing again, yet it took nothing from the experience. He was divine, he was godly. His clipped fingernails raked up my back and took goose pimples with them. His lips formed hickeys over my collarbones, sucking each spot of skin with sweet whispering love as well.

I somehow found and lit a cigarette, mid-fuck, though I'm still unsure of its origins as Gatsby barely smoked. He lit it for me as he thrusted in and out. You see, it wasn't the most engaging activity: you don't have much to do with your fidget fingers. It simply turned my stomach and ass and heart so that I needed a smoke to calm it down. With his strong thrusts, I held the cigarette to his lips, and he took short draws that made me shiver from his bitter exhales.

We followed each other's whims like gospel.

"I want a kiss, Old Sport." and we did.

"I want to go faster, Gatsby." and we did.

He could've asked me to stick his Tiffany lamp up my ass and I'd've unplugged the damn thing for him.

My favourite feeling was when the sides of our necks would press together, and we'd both cling onto each other's backs like Death himself was at the door.

In retrospect, I suppose he was.

But I can remember observing the perfect golden skin of his back and backside, slipping my fingers over tanned flesh taut with muscle and stress. I dread imagining the image from his side. Pallid, white skin over less bulky, strong muscle. His perfect arms wrapped around a waist too small for a man, too weak for a man. I often wonder if he did think that. I suppose he must've done. But the compliments never ceased.

The speed quickened with our libidos. I felt so feminine, so loved as I let out a moan and leaned back to lie against the desk. Using my bent leg as leverage, Gatsby fucked me open. I could think of nothing else; there was no room in my brain for contemplation or regret. My back arched with my eyebrows and, red-faced, I grinned through the orgasm which ended with a splatter of white on my stomach. It felt as if it went on for hours, with nothing in my mind except his face, smiling down at me, all flushed and happy-looking. His smile barely ceased, even as I pulled him down upon me, so our lips could feel one another one last time.

His lips called me Nickie, and mine called him Jay.

***

We dressed ourselves fairly quickly. I was the faster of us, taking less care to fix my hair, as nobody would care if I walked out naked, quite frankly. I lit a cigarette as Gatsby ran a comb through his hair in the mirror above the mantlepiece. His skin was back to gold again, and I wondered, for a moment, if I'd ever noticed how broad his shoulders looked, or how much his suit flattered his body. Even in my mind now, there is pre- and post-Gatsby.

There was not enough time for this to play out, as he was killed only a month or so later, but in a way, he was my Daisy. He was pretty and blond and unattainable to my humble footing.

Perhaps it was love.

Perhaps it was not.

I shall never really know. Perhaps I should have explained what I was feeling as we stood there, him so focused upon his reflection, and me so focused on it too. It could've changed what happened later, but there's the snag. I shall never know as I never did. Instead, he smiled at me as a friend, and led me back to the party with less tension in his face than before.

He asked me if I would stay a little longer, perhaps for the night, he could ask the staff to set up the room next to his, and I excused myself with work or something of the sort. I left after sinking one or two more glasses, and staggered home next door to shower and wash that out of me.

I suppose we weren't meant to be. The fates aligned us to tear us apart. But, try as I might, I don't know if this is correct.

Perhaps the fates were uninvolved. Perhaps the fates only exist to those with skeletons in their closets, a lazy scapegoat for the unmotivated. For a person who chose not to admit complicated feelings, for a person who didn't report spouses plotting together, for a person who left for work of all things. All to add distance, to add comfort, to add professionalism. 

Life is nothing but a series of choices that lead to a series of results.

Yet, as we try to make the best choices, we cause the worst results.


End file.
